Just Another Day
by Desdemona Kakalose
Summary: It's been a year since the collapse of the USA, and nobody's saying it's easy, but Hanna and his company have finally gotten their feet on the ground. Word comes in that there's something like the supernatural equivalent of an arsenal lying around in South Dakota. Details are fuzzy. Hunters, unfortunately, appear to be already on the scene, as Conrad is finding out the hard way.


_Just Another Day_

You should be able to read this if you don't actually watch supernatural. At least, that's the goal here.

I said I was gonna do it so I'm gonna do it. This is a sort of sequel to "Professional Courtesy", which I guess makes that fic retroactively part of the Hannapocalypse canon. We're working with the parallel universe approach here, so keep in mind that this is not canon divergent from Supernatural. This is a whole other universe.

* * *

_12 Months After the Treaty_

_(May)_

_Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

The one in the coat smelled like Bondye.

That was all that Conrad could think, between the spinning room and the heavy hot throbbing in his slow inhuman veins. He could feel it spreading through his body like a terrible black weed putting out shoots, like gangrene spiking through his system. They'd stabbed him with something, a small knife maybe, when he'd gone to check out the back room of the building. Right behind him, bam, like you'd think he was just turned yesterday.

He was still in the middle of this rotting empty warehouse in the middle of the night, as far as he knew, but with the toxin rolling through him it felt like he'd been picked up by a tornado and dropped off with some Kansas girl's house on top of him. He'd come in sniffing for clues, so to speak, while his friends (and he used the term loosely, on nights like these) were schmoozing it up at a make-shift tavern in the refugee camp a few miles away. They'd come into town looking for something that a small scale civil war might have uncovered and they hadn't had much luck, but somewhere in the haze of damp spring and mostly-buried human decay, Conrad had thought he'd caught a whiff of something suspicious. Something alive.

They had passed through the decimated city barely long enough to get a glimpse of the destruction before Worth was hunched over Conrad's seat and demanding they hit the gas _right this damn second. _Conrad had disliked having orders shouted in his ear, but he'd obliged. The doctor had a skittish streak when it came to Hanna, and lately he'd figured out that if he didn't let the wheels stop turning the likelihood of misadventures was reduced by half. And it wasn't that Conrad really wanted to hang around in that oversized necropolis, or that he wasn't worried about what Hanna might do himself, it was just that—well, he smelled something. The rot was mostly down to manageable, if pervading, levels and when he had gone to roll up the window, there it was.

And nobody believed him.

Surely, his companions had all told him with varying levels of politeness, nobody is still living in this bloody husk of a ghost town. All the survivors shifted down to the village a mile away, where they'd downed some trees and built themselves a crude fortress. Nobody had lived _here_ for at least a year.

Right. Who has two thumbs, a splitting headache, and a distinct lack of paranoia _now_.

Conrad staggered back, hands groping for a surface to stabilize himself on. There were only two men here, as far as he could tell. One of them would be classically handsome under any other circumstances, and the other one... the other one smelled like Bondye.

"What," he managed, "what did you—"

The one with the face—Conrad must be really out of it, but the man looked like an oil painting come to life in shades of dirt and dried blood—that one twisted his lip up in a gross parody of a smile. He was beautiful, oh. Oh Conrad was going to throw up.

"Dead man's blood," he said, twirling a vial in his calloused hands. "Gotcha, punk."

Conrad clutched his wrists in the faint hope of stopping the poison spreading through him. He could feel his lips pulling back from his teeth. "Who did you kill," he snarled, less a question than an accusation.

"Who-" the man echoed, his grin dropping away. "What do _you_ care?"

"If you think you can just drop into town and start slaughtering people for your sick jollies," Conrad said, teeth clenched, "you've got another bloody thing coming."

"Hey hey _whoa,"_ the man snapped, "I think you got it backwards. See, _you're_ the blood suckin murderous creep in this dialogue, not me. I'm the cleanin crew, buddy. I'm just doing my job."

"Oh right, picking off anyone who gets in your way, ends justifying the means, sure," Conrad said, "I've met your sort. Best thing you can say for yourself is you don't wear a gas mask." He sniffed, then added, "Probably worried it would clash with your grubby flannel and redneck veneer of negligence."

The man's beautiful face stiffened in absolute fury. "Listen here, you neck chewing-"

"Dean," the one in the coat cut in. His voice rolled low, like a motorbike engine inside a human throat, and his words had an efficient but urgent sharpness to them. "Judging from previous encounters, the vampire should be paralyzed by now. He is not."

They looked at him. Conrad looked down at himself too, flexed his fist. It hurt like something that even Worth wouldn't want to touch, but it wasn't incapacitating. Conrad considered faintly that he'd been through worse, and not even all that rarely. He led a very battered life these days, more's the pity. He struggled to his feet.

"Once more," he said, wiping some spit from his lips. Pain made him salivate, he didn't know why. Most things he just chalked up to alien biology and tried not to think about. _"Who_ did you kill?"

"Don't see why it's any of your-" Dean started, only to be cut off a second time.

"We siphoned it off of a casualty in battle last week," the one in the coat said, tilting his head in an almost birdlike way. "Since rot is more or less the point, a vial can last a long time."

"Oh," Conrad said. Some of the wind dropped out of his sails, and he wobbled a bit before getting a new grip on his indignation. "Well that's a bit gruesome isn't it! Not to mention unethical. Did you even get permission?"

"Permission?" Dean repeated, squinting. "Per_mis_sion?"

The one in the jacket stepped closer. His eyes were as unemotional as they were piercing, clinically evaluative. "During a war," he told Conrad, levelly, "the niceties of social courtesy are less important than survival."

"War?" Conrad asked, his hands now on his knees as he took deep calming breaths—the pain was fading, slowly, but breathing helped with the fair amount that remained. "What war."

The oddly calm man took another step closer, despite his companion loudly ordering him to stay back,_ damnit, this isn't a play date_.

"If not a war," the man said, apparently not concerned with whether this is a play date or not, "then what would you call the condition of the world?"

"Fuck," Conrad replied, "I don't know, an apocalypse?"

Behind them, Dean let out an ugly snort. "Believe me buddy, if it was an apocalypse, you'd know."

Conrad rounded on him. "Look, _buddy,_ you just poisoned me apropos of bloody nothing and I don't think you've got any right to stand there in the god damn corner making god damn snarky remarks about my god _damn _terminology, so will you kindly _cease!"_

Dean turned red. He turned hot, flushed, blood-pumping red. He looked like he was gearing up for a fight, Conrad had learned how to recognize that look in his sleep, but Conrad turned on his heel and redirected his attention toward the one in the jacket, who was less obviously full of hot fresh blood. Obviously the safer alternative.

"Not a war," he conceded. "Maybe a dark age. Wars have opposing sides, and so far the most consistent enemy I've seen so far has been poor sanitation."

"War is simpler to conceptualize," the man in the jacket says.

Conrad considered him for a moment. "You remind me of someone," he said, at last. "But also you really don't at all. It's the, um, the smell—I don't mean that in a rude way. And you have a kind of… walk."

Dean let out an irritated breath. "Cas come on, we have people to find and places to go, we don't have time to chat up the baddies. Either gank him or get out of the way."

"Who do I remind you of?" the man—Cas—persisted.

"There's this guy, kind of a cowboy sort," Conrad said, "he goes by Bondye. He's got this… white smell, does that sound crazy? I've never mentioned it to anyone. I mean, he seems human enough. Vitals signs are all there, and Hanna's never gotten a magical reading off him—"

"Hanna?" Dean interrupted. His face is draining, and he looks a little like he's been punched. Or maybe taken one too many turns on a spinning chair. "Hanna, uh. That wouldn't happen to be a girl's name, would it?"

Conrad turned. Oh no, _seriously._ "You know Hanna?"

"Depends," Dean replied, and his voice was aggressively noncommittal but he sheated his knife all the same. "Little red headed kid, totes around a big dead sidekick?"

Conrad pinched his forehead, where the last aches of the tainted blood were giving way to a completely new headache. "Oh," he said, "isn't this just typical."

-A-

The ride back to the refugee camp was tense and also a little bit crowded. They had stuffed back seat with supplies and there wasn't much room left for Conrad amongst the boxes of hostess snack cakes and beef jerky.

"So," Dean said, after they'd gone a couple miles down the road. "How come that blood didn't knock you flat?"

Conrad shrugged his hunched shoulders, his hands clenched around the cushion between his knees. If Worth could see him now they'd all be dead, for various reasons. "Dunno," he mumbled. "Nobody's ever tried it on me before."

He didn't ask how many other vampires they'd killed this way. He didn't want to know. It was true that generally speaking all vampires are some kind of bastard or another and some of them are downright nasty, and it's also true that what with the treaty and everything it is technically legal for any human being to kill any non human guilty of homicide. It is, furthermore, probably also true that when you become a predator species you give up some of your right to sympathy, after all, he wouldn't much blame a cow that mauled a human in the slaughterhouse.

But on the other hand, he'd been a vampire for some number of years now and more and more every day it was becoming an 'us' and less of a 'them'. Conrad had found himself standing in the doorway of two rooms, not quite a member of either.

"And what's a little geek like Hanna doing runnin around with bloodsuckers?" Dean went on, fingers crushing the wheel of his antique car. "If I find out he's gone darkside on us—"

"Excuse _you,"_ Conrad snapped, "whoever the hell you think you are—"

"Who _I_ think I am? Who _you_ think you are?"

The argument got very loud very quickly. Conrad's temper had a low threshold for knife-wielding assholes who thought they ran the world. Throughout the whole exchange, Conrad was vaguely aware of Cas sitting ahead of him in the front seat, very silent, very still. It got to be like a weight on a blanket, his completely stillness, until Conrad couldn't take it anymore.

"And what's _his_ deal?" he shouted, thrusting a finger at the back of Cas's head. "He just sits there, is he _drugged_ or something?"

Dean let out an exasperated breath. "He's just pissed off that I made him take the car, he's not on drugs._ Jesus._" He paused for a second, and then glanced away from the road for a moment. "Can you do drugs?"

"I am an angel of the Lord," Cas replied, sounding vaguely disgruntled. "I can experience one example of intoxication as well as any other, which is to say _not with any ease._"

And then _they_ were off, bickering, completely forgetting about the passenger in the back seat which was—oh—probably for the best, but also _completely maddening_. No, don't mind the alleged blood sucking monster fiend in the back seat, let's just have ourselves a slew of incomprehensible in-jokes in the front seat while he cools his bloody heels, and also did we mention that one of us has been a fucking angel this whole time?

Conrad clutched his head in his hands. Neither in one room nor the other. No respect, no fear, just miles and miles of resentful ambivalence and half-hearted threats.

He'd never met an angel before. He supposed that if he had ever given it any thought, he would have hoped for slightly better circumstances. And also more... er... halos.

The edges of civilization started to unfurl in the yellow headlights, slews of downed trees and tilled earth. Just around the bend would be the first length of wall, just long enough to keep road traffic stalled out. Past that would be the watch tower the locals had rigged up, and then beyond that was the real wall. It was a work in progress, but so far they'd managed to get about half a circle of protection raised around the camp. Conrad frowned as they pulled up to the first barricade. He realized belatedly that he had never explained to the hunters where he had come from, or where he was staying, or given them any directions on the road to get here.

Until that moment, it hadn't occurred to him that at least one of his chauffeurs might need to _live_ somewhere. Somewhere within driving distance of the abandoned town. Somewhere suitably fortified.

Conrad's eyes glazed over as they rolled through the checkpoint, receiving cheerful if weary greetings from the guards who undid the gate for them. One of them made a hopeful little crack about hunting, and Dean replied with a little shrug and a pinch of self-depreciation, something about _bobby_, and then they were off again.

"So," Conrad started. The car was mercifully silent again. "You live here."

Dean scowled into the rear view mirror. "For the moment," he replied. "We'll be taking off soon, as soon as things are settled down. Sheriff Mills doesn't need us mooching off her forever."

Conrad wasn't sure what to say to that. He'd met the sheriff briefly, while Hanna was negotiating for asylum, and she didn't seem like the type to let moochers hang around in her village.

They came up on the barricade. It had been built around the framework of an old gate, probably because people have this aversion to starting projects from scratch. You could still see the _Singer Auto_, but the _Salvage_ had been done in by time, entropy, and possibly clumsy recent builders.

Conrad had seen a few new towns spring up since the big collapse—they'd picked up the lamentable John Redstone in one of them, may he writhe in Hell, and it seemed that any city too big to fracture into latches the way Chicago and New York had done was doomed to eventually leak out into the country side, leaving the city itself a ghost. _Singer Auto _was what survived of Sioux Falls South Dakota, with its pell-mell collection of post-fallout homes spreading out behind it like a bridal train. Sioux Falls had been only a little smaller than Tallahassee, and it had not taken the disaster much better.

The locals had been tight lipped about it. Conrad mulled this over for a moment and then decided, oh well, in for a chicken in for an egg.

"So you guys had some kind of civil war," he said. "…What happened to the other guys?"

Dean stayed staring straight ahead, elbows locked, but Castiel turned his stony face to regard his companion.

"We don't know," Dean said, at last.

"You don't know."

"No," Dean growled, "we don't _know_. There was a fight on main street, in the city, and the bastards went for the big guns, and then. Poof. Nobody. There were still a couple of them on the street taking pot shots, but the cover fire disappeared and then there were no reinforcements, and then when we pushed forward into the east side of the road it was empty. No explanation."

"And that was when the west side packed up their bags?" Conrad guessed.

"Spooked," Dean said. He sounded, not disappointed as Conrad would have expected, but mostly exhausted. "Probably for the best. There's something wrong with that city. Mills is tactical, she doesn't take chances."

"And you were back there today because…"

"None of your beeswax," Dean replied, promptly. "Why were _you_ in the city?"

Conrad opened his mouth, paused, and then sighed. "As much as that was a _lamentably_ hypocritical reply," he said, "I don't actually mind telling you that I was there on Treaty business."

In the mirror, nothing registered on Dean's face except vague confusion."What is this, a cowboys and Indians thing?"

Conrad squinted at the back of the man's head. "The Treaty. Moonlight Races. The Salem Accords? _The council?"_

Dean glanced over at Castiel, as if waiting for an explanation.

Castiel shrugged minutely. "_Moonlight Races_ is an ancient term_._ In ages past, it was a rallying cry for various breeds on non-humans. As to the treaty in question, Dean, I have been fighting or I have been here on earth with you since your brother's death. I know very little of the world that I have not directly perceived through these eyes."

Dean's hands twisted on the wheel, but when he finally spoke, it was in the deliberately even tones of a man forcing himself to take in the facts. "Hey leech," he said, "you wanna fill me in on whatever the hell that is?"

"You just called me a leech," Conrad replied. "I don't think I want to do anything for you, actually."

"_Fine,"_ Dean said. There were clenched teeth in the word. "…What's your name."

"Conrad," Conrad said, sourly. "Achenleck. And most people at least _try_ to find out before they poison me."

"Well I'm just a curveball all around," Dean snapped. "Now, what's the treaty stuff, and why haven't I heard about it before."

Conrad told him.

It took a while.

-A-

Hanna found them a few minutes after they had parked. He looked like he'd been putting up wards—there was ink smeared over his cheek and he was a bit pale, even in the darkness, and Conrad's nose detected a faint scent of crisped meat, like electrocuted poultry. Hanna always smelled a little bit repellent, but after he'd done magic it took on a slightly less soggy note. Conrad worried about the younger man, at times.

"Connie!" Hanna shouted, waving one predictably smeared hand. "Who are your friends? Hey, whoa, did you go out?"

"Hi to you too," Dean muttered, but Hanna didn't seem to notice.

"Yes," Conrad sighed, "I went out."

"But the RV is still here," Hanna pointed out, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the hulking shadow of the camper.

Conrad hunched his shoulders. After the fiasco in Tallahassee he'd more or less given up on avoiding the bat stuff. He'd spent days at a time shape shifted during that incident, and it kind of… grew on you. Practice makes perfect or something. He didn't particularly want to explain that, though—it seemed somehow easier to let everyone go on thinking he was staunchly opposed to the whole concept.

"Waaaaait," Hanna said, "you're not wearing a shirt under that jacket, are you?"

Dean glared over the top of his car, irritation now redirected to Conrad. "Who said you could wear that jacket?"

"Well I wasn't just going to ride in a stranger's car without a shirt on!"

"What, do you have some kinda deformed monster nipples or something?"

Conrad was pretty sure he'd be turning red if he had any red left in his skin. "Take your stupid jacket back, then," he snarled, ripping the thing from his shoulders. "It's hideous anyhow!"

A look of panic splashed over Dean's face, and then he was scrambling over the hood of the car to snatch the jacket out of Conrad's hands before he could throw it on the ground.

"_Watch it_," Dean said. He said it in the same way that policemen who have been on the force for too long says "put your hands up," which is to say he sounded one safety catch away from doing something nasty. Conrad took an involuntary step back.

"So!" Hanna cut in, quickly, "Uh, thanks for giving my buddy here a lift! I don't know _what_ I would have done if something bad had happened to him," he added, still smiling, but the smile had a sharp edge to it.

Dean scowled at him. "If he hadn't been a friend of yours," Dean replied, letting the hypothetical hang.

"Mine?" Hanna said. "Why would…"

Hanna squinted. He put his hands on his hips and craned his neck up, went up on his toes, got as close to Dean's face as he could before Dean wobbled backwards away from him with a disconcerted expression.

"Oh!" Hanna said, at last, dropping back down to his regular height, "You're one of the brothers, names like a gun, what was it, Rochester?"

"Winchester," Dean corrected, looking pained.

"Winchester! Right, right, gosh man the apocalypse has not been kind to _you_! Where's your brother? Must be around here somewhere, kinda hard to hide a guy that size!"

Dean's lips went tight. "Sam is dead."

Hanna went still. "Oh," he said. "Dang, man. I'm sorry to hear that. Plague?"

"Couple days before it, actually."

Conrad glanced over at Castiel, who had been awfully silent throughout this whole exchange, and who was now giving Dean an uncertain look as if he dearly wanted to correct him somehow but had no idea where to start. Conrad had the impression that whatever Dean was telling Hanna (and he had just lost track of the conversation entirely) it wasn't the whole truth, for one reason or another. Probably it had something to do with Conrad standing here, but hey, who knew with hunters.

"So, uh," he said to Castiel, because the alternative was both of them standing here in awkward silence while Dean and Hanna played high school reunion. "You're an angel."

Castiel didn't even look at him.

"Must be, um, big stuff going on down here, on earth," Conrad tried again. This was stupid, why did he even bother. "You know, if you're down here."

"My brother is attempting to bring about a second Armageddon," Castiel replied, with absolutely no inflection whatsoever.

"Er."

Castiel refocused his attention on Conrad, now with a flash of pointed interest. "The man you mentioned before, who has my scent. Where did you meet him?"

Conrad sighed. "Do you want the long version or the short version?"

Castiel wanted the long version.

Conrad had just gotten up to the part where Bondye had smuggled him back to the rebel camp when Sheriff Mills found them, her arms slung over with blankets, and interrupted the story.

"Sorry to barge in boys," she said, giving Castiel a motherly sort of look that struck Conrad as absurdly out of place. "Dean seems to be pretty deep in it over there and I hate to get between him and another human being. Hardly talks much these days, if it's not to his girl or the kid. Anyhow, I was just wondering if you folks will be staying the night in the main house or in that monster camper of yours."

Conrad bit his lip. He'd gotten kind of used to having his own room again while they had been in Tallahassee, and since they had all packed back into the RV there had been an even weirder sort of tension between him and Doc Worth than usual.

"We couldn't possibly impose," he told the sheriff.

"Nonsense," Mills replied. "Your friend there really did us some good work, we're happy to accommodate. It's just me and Bobby and Dean in the house right now, and Cas here but Cas don't sleep so he's not taking up any room. Got a spare bed and a couple of cots we made up for the refugees a while back, but since Bill got hit with the flu a couple weeks ago we haven't had anybody in 'em."

"Er, really, we're used to the camper, we're fine."

Mills raised an eyebrow. "Gonna get pretty cold later tonight, especially for you California kids."

"Thanks, but, you know, I'm not sure if we'd be… welcome…" Conrad snuck a quick glance at Dean, who was listening to Hanna ramble with a look of gentle bewilderment on his unfairly symmetrical face.

Mills followed his glance. "Ah," she said. "Oh, Dean's harmless! He's been living with us for, hm, three months now? _Dean_, how long you been living with Bobby now?"

"Four months," Dean said, glancing back. "We'll be leaving soon."

"Yeah," Mills replied. "Just like you told me last month. And the month before. Look, I like having you around, kid. You don't have to make excuses."

Dean shrugged and turned back to Hanna.

"He's all bark," Mills said, with the casual dismissal of someone who had never been stabbed by the man in question.

Conrad shrugged, helpless. He didn't have the energy to argue anymore. "I'll get our things," he sighed.

-A-

Bobby's House, as everyone seemed intent on calling it, was the head of the Singer Auto Encampent and actually quite lovely if you squinted. It must have been a nice place when it had been built in the fourties, but it hadn't been maintained more than the bare minimum since it was built. The man Bobby himself had put them through all sorts of tricky tests before letting them inside the place, and he hadn't given them much warning. Conrad was sporting a nasty case of iron burn for his troubles.

Still, once they'd explained the deal ad nauseam, Bobby had eventually withdrawn and let them be.

Conrad flipped a page in a huge book that seemed to have been illuminated by artists who had very little understanding of the term "uncanny valley". It was the Book of Kells for amateurs. It also had some sketchily written accounts of suddenly disappearing armies.

It was five in the morning, and Conrad was the last one awake. They'd set him on the research shift for the morning, since Hanna had worn himself out with the heavy magic earlier and had been having trouble staying awake. Conrad reflected wearily that there was definitely no such thing as a free lunch.

He looked out over the overflowing stacks of books. There was some kind of order to them, but he had no idea where it started. Bobby had dragged about five big tomes free of the chaos and dropped them down in front of Conrad a few hours ago, while Hanna and Dean had been embroiled in some pointless semantic debate about the amount of immediate danger the encampment was actually in. The rest of them were content with not knowing the gory specifics.

There was a creak in the hallway. Conrad looked up to find Worth, sans coat and boots, smoking in the doorway as if the morning would never come.

"Funny how the folks in Salem jus' knew ter send us over here," he observed, breath trailing silver smoke. "Hardly back up north a full week 'fore we got another assignment."

Conrad shrugged. "They're getting a better grasp on their information network. It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"An' how come they think we're some kinda peace-keepin' organization?" Worth carried on, as if Conrad hadn't spoken. "Ya drive a couple ambassadors around an' suddenly yer everybody's errand boy."

Conrad frowned into his book. "In my experience, when you give _anybody_ an inch they're bound to take the mile."

"Ain't we done enough?" Worth asked the bookshelf, apparently. "When do we get ter settle in an' live quiet?"

Conrad snorted. It came out a pretty ugly sound. "We?" he echoed. "Me, I know better than to ask. But you? Worth, you wouldn't know how to settle down if you took a two year course and got your master's in it."

"Ey, I spent plenny'a good years livin' back home quiet as ya please."

Conrad gave up the pretence of reading his book. "Sure," he said, "and you really want to go back to that? Come on, we all know you love this, this whole… mad max thing. You've been waiting for this your whole shitty life."

Worth took a deep drag, narrowed his eyes. "Ya think ya suddenly know sommat about me 'cause we bonded in jail, Conniekins?"

"We did nothing of the sort," Conrad snapped. "I _think_, Doctor, that your motives are terrifyingly transparent. And I _think_ that we were sent to this town with specific orders, and if nothing else I at least know how to _follow_ them."

"Look at you, Mr. Soldier. Takin' _orders_."

"Everything is orders," Conrad replied, irritated. "Life is a series of them. Just because you don't listen doesn't mean they're not there."

"Not much good then, are they?"

"Not the point."

"What _is_ the point then, Private?"

Conrad bared his teeth. "The _point is_," he answered, "that I plan to find this damn artifact, tell the locals as little as reasonably possible, and then get the hell out of town exactly like we were _asked_ to do so that we can then continue surviving by the grace and good will of whatever fucked up sadistic god is in charge of our lives."

"Waa waa," Worth mocked.

"You are such a hypocrite," Conrad snarled, jumping to his feet. "So you can complain but I can't?"

Worth turned and stalked across the room, not stopping until he was looming just a couple inches over Conrad's head. "Kinda looks that way, don't it?" he said, pale smoke leaking from between his teeth. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

Conrad—Conrad wanted—oh, Conrad wanted to break his nose and Conrad wanted to thrown down this huge heavy book and Conrad wanted to grab the bastard by the chin and—

"Forget it," Conrad hissed, dropping back into his seat. "Forget it. We're not doing this is a stranger's house. Go and, and sleep, or something. It's almost morning."

Worth stood there for a second more, and then he jammed his cigarette back into his mouth. "Happy hunting," he said, and strode out of the room without a second glance.

Conrad buried his face in the book. God have mercy on his questionable soul, he was so fucked up it wasn't even funny. So fucked up, and so very tired. He could never seem to get fully rested anymore.

Still. There was a little more time before daybreak and he had two more books to get through, and then he could escape this whole clusterfuck of a life for a few hours in the sweet dreamless embrace of an undead coma. Just a little longer.

He could manage that.

-A-

The dreamless sleep of Conrad, cocooned in a frankly underwhelming cot in the laundry room, was interrupted by a crash of thunder, a door slamming open, and a small person tripping bodily over him with shout and a thud of limbs. Conrad curled in on himself woozily, vaguely aware that it was high noon and he should not be awake and this was a state of affairs most easily fixed by remaining as silent and small of a target as possible, right here, on the floor of the laundry room covered in other people's linens.

"Oh shit," said a small voice, only a couple inches from his face.

Conrad's self preservation clicked on with some protest, and he opened one eye to get a look at the threat. It was a kid, maybe eleven years old, with dark hair and a sheepish expression.

Oh. Well was that all? Conrad doubted anybody that small would have much luck trying to shove a stake through his rib cage.

"Hey," said the kid, "hey, are you okay? Did I break anything?"

"Mmmmph," said Conrad.

The kid poked him, fairly gently. "Are you making that noise because you're asleep or because I crushed your lungs?"

Conrad grudgingly opened both eyes. "I'm fine," he mumbled, "takes a lot more than that to hurt me."

The kid went into immediate investigatory mode, appraising every inch of Conrad that he could get a look at. "Are you the vampire?"

"The vampire, he says," Conrad moaned, burying his face in a pillow. This was why he avoided children. "Am I the vampire, well I'm bloody well not the doctor I can tell you that much."

"Cause," the kid went on, "you could be the zombie, I guess, Dean says they kind of look like sad pale dead people."

Conrad sighed into the pillow, which was pointless because nobody could appreciate the effort that went into it. He considered lifting his head and sighing again for proper effect, but then that would be trying a little too hard. "Yes," he said, instead, "I'm the vampire. Who are you?"

"Ben Braeden," the kid replied, crossing his legs and settling in.

"And you're doing…what, in my room, exactly?"

"Uh." Ben looked elsewhere. "I was… looking… for a tornado shelter."

"In the laundry room."

"Yeah."

"Of a house you've presumably been in before, since I doubt Mr. Singer lets random strangers run around on his property whenever they like."

"…Yeah?"

Conrad wracked his fuzzy post-sleep memory. "Are you afraid of thunder or something?"

"No," said Ben, looking at him like he was crazy. "What am I, six?"

"Well why else would you be running around during a storm, tripping over people left and right?"

Ben's small face skewed into a deeply conflicted expression. Conrad took pity on him after a moment of anguished silence, turned over, and closed his eyes.

"Whatever," he said. "It's not my house, it's not my business."

The room was quiet for a moment, and then Ben said, "Promise not to tell Dean?"

Conrad sighed, again, loudly. "Sure. Promise."

Ben wriggled past the head of the cot and dug between the obsolete dryer and the wall. After a moment of fumbling, he pulled out a silver letter opener with a wicked curved point and a midsized water pistol. Then, with a motion that nearly stalled out and aborted, he pulled free an old fashioned revolver. Conrad scrambled backwards in a tangle of sheets and toppled out of bed.

"Is that loaded?" he hissed, furiously trying to free himself from the twine of bedding.

"Ye…eeessss?" Ben answered.

Conrad swore into the fallen stack of pillows and then pulled himself upright. "Don't store loaded guns, you idiot. And for god's sake don't point that thing anywhere near me!"

Ben grimaced. "I thought you were a vampire."

"Yeah, and if you take my head off with that thing I'll be a dead vampire."

Ben bit his lip, turned away, and unloaded the gun. "Sorry," he said. "I don't really—I'm not sure what exactly to do, Dean won't teach me."

Conrad relaxed marginally. "Why don't you ask your dad then?" he suggested. "Or your mum," he added, after a moment.

"Mom doesn't know much about guns," Ben said. "And dads aren't really an option for me."

Ah. Ahhh. Conrad dropped the wad of sheets back on the cot and sat down. Sounds like a familiar story. He couldn't very well ask if the father was deceased or just plain old departed, but he wondered just how familiar the story would be, if he pressed.

"I'm not scared of thunder," Ben emphasized, looking down at the dismantled revolver. "It's just that. Dean took all the guests out to look at his trunk, and mom left me here because she doesn't think I should be around that many guns, and I heard the thunder and I thought…"

The kid trailed off, glanced up at the cracked ceiling as if he could see the roiling sky overhead. He had a tense, jumpy sort of mood to him, the look of a survivor who isn't entirely sure of their continued survival. Maybe he'd seen some things. Well, with the world being what it was, who hadn't? Maybe the plague had taken the kid's dad, maybe something worse, maybe Conrad was jumping to conclusions.

"There's something out there," Ben said, at last. "Nobody knows what it is, but it got those guys in the city. Dean says crazy never happens once. It's gonna come for us next, maybe really soon. Dean's always talking to Cas about angels and wars and stuff, and they get a lot of tornados around here so everybody is all crazy about that all the time, and Dean won't teach me how to hunt even though I can do it!"

Conrad blinked. Uh. What do you say to that. Gingerly, he reached out and sort of… patted the kid on the shoulder. Like a complete git. Ben gave him a wary look but didn't seem too put off.

"There's nothing worse than feeling powerless," Conrad said. He winced, hoped he wasn't coming off as too after-school-special. "I know, believe me. But look, you're just a kid. You're not going to be much help in a fight. Maybe you should, I don't know, focus on defensive magic or something? Hanna can whip up a pretty stellar force field, he could probably teach you."

"When Dean was a kid he was fighting monsters," Ben muttered.

Conrad considered that for a moment. "I guess that explains a few things about his attitude," he said. "He's probably got his reasons for shooting you down though. Most people do. I mean, I guess you must like the guy, but he seems like kind of an asshole? I don't know why you'd want to risk turning out like him."

"You wouldn't get it," Ben muttered.

"Yeah, the emotional complexities of an eleven-year-old are completely beyond me, why do I try."

Ben said nothing.

Conrad sighed. Again. This time it was just instinct. "Look," he said. "I'm kind of decent in a fight these days and as long as the sun isn't out I can be up in a pinch. If you'll let me sleep until the next major crisis, you can hang out in here while they're gone."

"But it's boring in here."

Conrad gave him an exhausted eye-roll and settled back into his temporary bed, groping for a pillow that hadn't picked up too much dust from the floor. "Don't stay if you don't want to," he said.

Ben shuffled uncertainly.

"Ugh. Just… talk, or something. I can sleep through almost anything. Tell me about how you got here, your crushes, your mom, I don't care."

Ben gave the door one last uneasy look, and then he settled down on top of an overturned laundry basket and began to tell a halting rendition of his life story, beginning with Suzie Johnson in the fourth grade and ending—at least, the last that Conrad was conscious for—with the tale of Dean Winchester, who pulled up to the Braeden doorstep two weeks into the apocalypse with an angel, half a decent plan of escape, and four dollars to his name, and taken them away to South Dakota.

Vampires don't dream, but Conrad fell asleep with the fuzzy vision of a knight's storybook steed, an entire family loaded precariously on its back.

-A-

Evening fell once again, heavy on the Singer Auto Encampment. Conrad woke to the sounds of what was probably dinner in the kitchen, complete with shouting and clanking dishware. He lay there for a while, drowsily soaking in the ambient noise. So much life in one old house, bright and noisy and at least half of it intimately familiar. In the darkness of the laundry room, Conrad imagined that this was his home and these were his family, and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that would be all the same. He imagined an endless sequence of evening just like this, with a world on the other side of this door waiting for him to join it.

Of course, the whole cot-in-the-laundry-room thing spoiled the fantasy a bit. Conrad frowned and flipped over. What he wouldn't give to have an actual room, somewhere.

He climbed out of bed, did some damage control on his hair, and then slipped out of the makeshift bedroom.

Out in the heart of the house everything was a bustle of dying sunlight and activity. He could see Sheriff Mills through the kitchen entryway, ladling something into a cracked ceramic bowl. In the living room, almost buried in a stack of books, Hanna was flipping through a dusty old tome and chewing idly on a strip of jerky. Hanna looked up from his book, spotted Conrad, and burst into a grin.

"Finally up then!" Hanna said, making an early grab for the day's Most Obvious Statement Award.

"Yeah," Conrad said. "Any luck with the library there?"

Hanna scowled briefly, and then shrugged. "Thought I had something earlier, but the details didn't match. The guys say there wasn't anything left—no bodies, no artifacts, no nothing."

"How Roanoke," Conrad said.

Hanna raised his eyebrows. "That's what I said," he mused, "but Dean nearly had a panic attack when I said it so, uh, I wouldn't bring it up again. That guy's accumulated more inexplicable trauma than a borrowed Volvo."

From this angle, Conrad could see Dean hunched over the kitchen table like he was afraid someone would snatch his dinner out from underneath him. Apparently Bobby had a decent stockpile of supplies when the plague swept through, and they had been able to spare enough seed to put in a crop for the next year. Food wasn't exactly plentiful, but nobody around here was starving. Whatever Dean's problem was, it wasn't about that.

"We need more info," Hanna sighed, pushing aside his book. "Not that I'm not super into this whole free library thing, but right now I'm just fucking around in the hopes of stumbling across something useful. I've been reading about angels for the last hour just because. He's got a huge angels section and it's full of little bookmarkies."

Conrad glanced at the kitchen again, at the spot where he imagined Castiel was probably hovering. Not eating. Uncomfortably observing the meal as a displaced third party. Yeah, Conrad could imagine.

"Is the kid still here?" Conrad asked, "Ben, er, Braeden?"

Hanna gave him a quizzical glance. "His mother took him back to their place about an hour ago. She had an argument with Dean about something, you know," he paused meaningfully, and then added, "major drama."

Oh, that explained a few things.

Conrad rubbed his forehead. "We're not getting involved in some hunter's relationship drama. No way. Not happening. I'll put up with civil wars, revolutions, bounties, and political upheaval, but I am not going to play marriage councilor."

"But Connieeeeee."

"No. I draw the line."

Hanna shrugged mournfully and flapped a dismissive hand. "Be that way," he said. "Oh. Worth says he found you a donor. He's lurking in the kitchen I think."

"Ah."

Conrad rubbed vaguely at the center left of his chest. He was pretty hungry. He weighed the heaviness of the hunger against the scowling carelessness of Doc Worth this early in the (metaphorical) morning. Hunger won out, barely. He slipped into the kitchen with his head down, trying not to draw any more attention to himself than necessary. He was entering an intensely other space, and was tensely aware of it.

There was Mills at the counter, and Dean with his hoard of soup, and Bobby fiddling with some oddity in the drawers. At the far end of the table, Conrad was mildly surprised to find the zombie sitting across from their angel, orange eyes intently focused. His gloved hands were folded in front of him, shoulders squared—Conrad had a mild flashback to a cop show he used to watch in college, before he decided that cop shows were a lost cause and switched back to pirating indie films. The dead man looked effortlessly professional.

Conrad turned, spotted Worth on the other side of the room scowling and scraping the meat off a bone with extreme prejudice, and promptly kept on turning. Wow. No. No it was way too early to deal with Doc Worth, he had changed his mind, he was not even going to mess with that one. Not while the doctor was holding a carving knife anyway.

Instead, Conrad took a seat at the table with the zombie and the angel. They didn't eat food either, and they were as weird of anomalies as Conrad, if not even more so. As the chair scraped across the floor, Castiel cast one brief but intensely scrutinous at Conrad, like a soldier sizing up a potential siege site, and then promptly lost interest. The zombie was speaking.

"But did they have vehicles?" he asked. His voice was soft and insistent.

"Yes," Castiel replied, and his voice was still one shade removed from gargling gravel. "Perhaps three trucks in working condition, although I only witnessed two."

"And do you think they could have used those trucks to vacate the field?"

Conrad dropped his head onto his fist and generally tried to blend in with the wallpaper. He was pretty sure he knew what topic was currently on the table, but he was a little surprised to see the zombie taking such an active role in investigating it. Usually he just hung out over Hanna's shoulder and observed. He did look awfully natural sitting there, though, you had to give him credit. If they could find him a new fedora for the occasion, he'd be something straight out of a noir film.

Castiel's expression was reserved, but there was a slight pursing of the lips that spoke volumes. "I have now had," he said, "ample experience with automobiles. They do not move fast enough. Between the time when I was summoned and my appraisal of the battle, there was not sufficient time for a vehicular escape."

"You were summoned?" the zombie asked. Conrad recognized a note of curiosity in the words. It wasn't that the dead man was completely monotone, it was only that he spoke so softly and reasonably that you often forgot he had personal emotions.

"I was involved in a prior task," Castiel explained.

"What was that?"

"There is a war in heaven," Castiel told him, inclining his head ever so slightly. "Not unlike the one that was here in this vicinity. Two factions, alike in ambition, strive for the victory of their regime. I lead the less powerful."

Conrad snorted. Typical. Find out there's a heaven and it turns out they're too busy taking pot shots at each other to do anybody any good. No wonder the planet wasn't getting any heavenly FEMA the last couple years. The zombie, though, he seemed to be thinking along different lines.

"All by yourself?" he asked.

"I have lieutenants."

"But other than that, just you," the dead man mused. "That's a lot of responsibility for one man."

"I am not a man," Castiel replied, a little reproachful. "I'm an angel."

"And so are your opponents," the zombie countered mildly.

"Of course," Castiel said. He sounded distinctly nonplussed, and he snuck a glance at Conrad, as if he was trying to tell whether some joke was flying over his head. Conrad avoided his gaze.

"So," the zombie carried on, leaning back somewhat, "you received a call for help, and you came running just in time to find the whole area empty of human life. What were they expecting to need your help for?"

Castiel blinked. "Well they heard the horn and naturally suspected that additional soldiers were being summoned."

"Naturally?" Conrad cut in, frowning. "Maybe you don't know this, but human armies haven't used horns for at least a century."

Castiel shrugged, a gesture that looked stilted on his usually still shoulders. "Robert already looked into the Wild Hunt, I understand. It yielded no results."

Conrad was about to asked what a wild hunt was when Hanna's voice broke into the web of conversation.

"Did you say horn?" Hanna asked, eyes bright in the doorway. "Like a bugle type thing?"

"Yes," Castiel said, with a hint of impatience. "Like a bugle type _thing."_

Hanna rubbed his hands together with old fashioned villainous glee. There was a manic brightness about him that Conrad had come to recognize as a sign of terrible things to come. "Guess what guys? I think I know what our mystery abduction is."

TBC


End file.
